She Gets It! (Part III)

I wrote a book-like comment in response to all of your challenging, interesting, respectful and kind comments on the situation at Spanish school, in case you want to read it. I read all of those comments many, many times. I learned a lot from these experiences and from your thoughts.

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A week later, I visit the preschool at the coop we currently attend (in the toddler class) with several other parents. I've been looking at other options and avoiding this visitation. I guiltily admit that I am not hopeful. I don't know the preschool teacher well, but something about her bubbly, stereotypical preschool teacher personality triggers a negative response in me. The program is fine. I love our coop. I love that I'd be there one day a week and drop off one day.

Towards the end of our observation, Teacher M asks if we have any questions. There are few.

"I have some questions," I tell her, "but they are very specific to my daughter, maybe I could call you or we could chat another time."
"Oh, I think now is fine," she gushes in her over-the-top-I-love-little-people voice. The other parents drift away and we are left alone in the hall.
"Well, I think you know Saige."
"Oh, yes, she's just gorgeous."

Sigh.

"I think so. Um, I have some concerns. She has some small behaviors related to being institutionalized for her first year and to some lingering attachment and bonding issues. They can really be exaggerated at home if things are off in an outside environment. It's really hard to explain, you'll think I'm crazy."

Stop, Stacey, don't defend, you know your daughter, just the facts. (Sigh.)

"It's subtle. It's difficult to describe." She waits patiently, without trying to provide words. "One thing I'm concerned about is how you handle inappropriate time with you or inappropriate affection. For instance, how would you handle it if Saige always sat in your lap, whenever you sat down."
"Would that bother you?" she asks.
"Yes and no. She needs to be treated exactly like the other children, over-exaggeratedly so, sometimes. If a child sits in your lap during circle time every day, I have absolutely no problem with her getting a turn. But, if they get to pick, or ask, and it ended up being Saige every day, because, I can tell you, it would end up being Saige every single day, I would be concerned. I know it's subtle, but here's another example. If you allowed it, she would follow you around and be your special helper all the time. She would end up never doing the activity the other kids were doing, but instead, helping you. They all might be painting and she would be passing out the paint with you. That would be a red flag for me. But, if each child in the class got a day to wear a special hat and be your helper, I would not have a problem with her having her turn."

I carry on, feeling crazy. "I know it sounds subtle, but it is really, really important. If this were going on all the time, if she were looking to you for special attention and comfort, and you were, um, feeling the need or the desire to favor her in this way, I would want to know. I would change things. I might keep her home for a week, doing projects with me, or only bring her to school on my work day."

"Sure," she smiles, her voice is still shockingly perky, but her eyes are direct and intense, "that kind of special treatment and affection needs to come only from you."

I almost burst into tears. I am devastated by her understanding.

"That's it exactly." Okay, not all of it, carry on, momma. "Well that and that she really shouldn't be treated differently from the other children because she looks different, or has a different background."

I am so shocked that I babble on, almost unintelligible. "It's so difficult at times, if someone in authority doesn't understand. I can tell because often the person will just gush and gush about Saige, how helpful she is, how cooperative, how sweet, 'their little helper' and all I can think is how easily manipulated they are by a three-year-old child."

"Sure, I can see that. I think there is a natural inclination to compensate. People think, poor little thing, an orphanage, adopted, but that's not what she needs, is it?"

I might marry this woman. Did I say her voice was high and perky, because it's musical. Like a classic opera.

"No, it really isn't," I say, "and then, poor little Garrett."

"Oh my gosh yes," she breaks in, "I can only imagine how important it is for them to get equal attention. He probably acts out."

Am I dreaming this conversation?

"Not equal," I whisper, near tears, "just appropriate. Just praise when due. Just, nothing different from any other children. They both act out when things are off, they are very sensitive to this."

"Of course they are. It's not a problem. We'll keep communication open, but I can handle this, I completely understand your concerns."

I want to kiss her on her mouth, squeaky, kid-friendly voice and all. "Thank you," I manage.

Thank you, universe, for the occasional person that just gets it.

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(I do see the irony of the ease of this conversation and my failure to give SB this chance or similar information. In my defense, I have had similar conversations that did not go nearly this well. But, I promise, I will assume that SB would have reacted exactly like this and that the failure was mine. End AnyPreschool drama. I swear.)